


Don't Leave Me Alone

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood and Injury, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feelings Realization, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, The Witcher Secret Santa, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28285674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Geralt has been on the path for years. He’s learned how to look after himself, especially after getting hurt. It’s all part of the business of being a Witcher. But now he has a bard intent on looking after him and making sure he’s safe...and Geralt has absolutely no idea why.--A Witcher Secret Santa Gift!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 177
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	Don't Leave Me Alone

**Author's Note:**

> A Witcher Secret Santa gift for tumblr user @leavemecryingdandelion! Happy holidays x

It never gets easier. The pain might have faded over the years, and he doesn’t feel the scrapes and bruises anymore. The smaller cuts that knit together and fade within hours don’t bother him at all. And the thrum of potions through his blood and muscles tempers the worst stings of cuts.

But that isn’t to say that he doesn’t feel anything. He’s had worse injuries. He assures himself that he’s dealt with _much worse_. Broken bones that have taken days and weeks to try and slot back together again. Cuts and wounds that have carved into the very core of him. But he manages. There might be a healer, or a sorcerer, about to haul him into a cot and try and help. That’s if the gods are kind, which they rarely are. There have been moments when he’s had to drag himself into a safe space, knocking back as many potions as he can before his blood turns toxic, or he runs out of blood to keep his heart beating. If healers are about, they work while he sleeps; or drifting between dark and light, grappling to stay awake, and making out mumbled conversation from the healer and others who come to study the anatomy of a Witcher.

He’s always been alone, and that’s been just fine.

And now there’s Jaskier.

A few scrapes and bruises aren’t much to worry about. He shrugs them off, continuing their trek towards the next village or town or whatever waits for him at the end of this cursed road.

Jaskier doesn’t seem that convinced. He watches the Witcher, fumbling with his hands and eyeing him perched on Roach. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. He makes the mistake of stepping too close to Roach’s flank. The mare’s ears flatten and she threatens to kick out with a leg. A warning shot and nothing else. She wouldn’t _actually_ kick him – Geralt hopes. He really doesn’t want to deal with a maimed bard. He doesn’t know what could be worse; the bard having a broken leg or the complaining and whining that would follow.

Jaskier chews his lip. “It’s just that,” he continues, “you took quite a hit back there. Do you need anything? One of your potions or something?”

Like Jaskier would know how to navigate his satchel. The potions look different – glass bottles sculpted in a way that he can feel for the ridges and indents on their surfaces, in case he can’t make out the liquid inside. Too many accidental ingestions have happened over the years. Jaskier had an interest in the potions. He watched when Geralt brewed more of them, sniffing the air, wondering what made some of them so citric and sharp, while others were mellower and almost pleasant smelling.

Geralt takes a steady breath. “I’m fine,” he grunts, setting his heels to Roach’s side and picking up the pace.

* * *

The first time Jaskier gets involved, even though Geralt is slipping away because of the pain, he has to commend the bard on actually knowing what he’s doing.

When all of this is over, and he can walk again, he’s storming to the alderman’s door and demanding double, if not triple, his coin. He should have known – a nekker nest doesn’t just contain a _handful_ , as the leering alderman informed him. He should have known to double those numbers and include a queen for good measure. He brought what he could, and it still wasn’t enough. And now he’s here, slipping away because of pain thrumming through his muscles and bones, masking the scent of blood stinging the room.

Jaskier bustles around, weaving through the two healers he managed to call in from neighbouring houses. They strip him of his armour and ripped clothing underneath. The sharp acrid scent of blood and poisons sting through the air. His nose wrinkles. The room is warm and stuffy, and the scents linger. Why aren’t the windows open? They should be open—

Suddenly, a warm hand settles on to his forehead. “None of that,” Jaskier lulls, “settle down. You’ll make everything worse if you keep squirming around.”

Geralt musters enough energy to open his eyes. Jaskier stands to the side of the cot, doublet long since shucked off of him and his tunic sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Clutched in his hand are three vials; different glass cases, all potions of different colours. One for pain, one for blood loss, and the other as an antiseptic. Geralt’s eyes narrow. The bard _has_ been paying attention. Jaskier nimbly uncorks the first of the potions; _Kiss_ , the first potion Geralt restocks every hunt because of its importance. Just over Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt can make out the faint blurred shapes of healers bowing over him, setting strips of cloth over his chest and abdomen. As soon as they’re placed down against his skin, they stain crimson. He’s bleeding, he notices. He’s bleeding _a lot_.

His heart thumps slowly in his chest. At least something noticed the extent of his injuries. It will be a long time before he’ll be able to bleed out. But now Jaskier is here, and setting the edge of the glass vial against Geralt’s lip. “Come now,” he murmurs, setting his other hand against the back of Geralt’s head, helping him tilt back and swallow the potion. It doesn’t get easier; fighting through the initial sting of it against his tongue, but he grunts as Jaskier lays him back against the cot and smoothes a hand over his cheek. Blue, familiar eyes look down at him. “There, that should help.”

It’s...odd. Feeling another person’s hands and fingers stitch him back together again, soft voices slowly fading into the background as he drifts back into sleep. Something tugs him under, wanting to lap over him and bring him down. And it’s a struggle to stay awake.

He’s distantly aware of the healers in the room. For a moment, they fade away entirely and all that’s left is Jaskier. The bard talks to him. He doesn’t seem to stop talking, apparently. He speaks with such quiet that Geralt wonders if he’s actually mumbling to himself or to Geralt, or if he’s too far gone down the lure of potions that he’s slipping away.

Eventually it’s too much. His eyelids refuse to hold themselves open any longer. A long, languid breath leaves him as he sinks further down into the cot’s bedding. The sounds and dim glowing lights of the room all fade away. The last thing he feels is a familiar warm hand settling on to his forehead. And it all slips away.

* * *

Clambering awake after a botched hunt is always the hardest. No matter how many times hunts leave him cut and bruised and broken, waking up from a healing sleep is always difficult. The first thing that greets him is a medicinal smell of crushed leaves and poultice. His ears twitch at floorboards creaking and soft snoring.

A frown burrows into his brow. Prying his eyes open is difficult. Sharp beams of light stretch into the room, reaching for the end of his cot. They’re blindingly bright and Geralt squints against them for a moment. When he’s able to hold his eyes open for more than a few seconds, and he blearily looks around the room, he blinks at the sight of the bard slumped in a chair nearby. He’s by his bedside, just an arm’s reach away. His hair falls down in front of his face, but through small gaps, Geralt spots that his eyes are closed, his lips pressed together and soft, and his chest filling with steady, rhythmic breaths.

The cot creaks beneath him as he shifts, trying his best to swallow a grunt at a small thrum of pain bolting through his side. It’s enough to wake the bard. Bleary blue eyes blink for a moment before Jaskier rubs a hand over his face. Sleep is slow to let go of him.

Geralt manages to push himself up slightly on to his elbows, craning up to look around the room. They’re back at the tavern they planned on staying at. His swords and armour and other gear sit slumped at the foot of the bed. It’s already cleaned, he notices. But the bitter, acrid scent of blood still lingers in the air.

“Oh, no, hey, hey,” Jaskier bumbles, sitting forward and setting a hand on to Geralt’s bare shoulder. Looking down at himself, he spots that half of his torso is bound in white cloth bandages. Specks of red seeped through, but the bleeding seems to have stopped. Jaskier lightly pushes him. “You’re still healing. Down you go.”

Something perches on the tip of his tongue. His usual rebuttal for help, an assurance that he’s fine and he has been through worse. But tiredness settles into the hollows of his bones and it doesn’t take a lot of force from Jaskier to lower Geralt back down on to the cot. He grunts as he settles, his abdomen tensing and a slight sting of pain bolting through him from some stitches pulling.

Jaskier’s hand takes a moment to slip away, but it’s quickly replaced. He can’t feel it on his skin, but looking down, Geralt watches the bard’s finger deftly see to the bandages binding his torso. Jaskier nips at his lip, biting it in thought as he runs his eyes over how well the bandage seems to be holding on. “Some bleeding still,” he murmurs, “but not as bad as before.”

Something lies in those words. They shake slightly. Geralt blinks at him. “Where are the healers?” he rumbles. He almost winces at how rasping and heavy his voice sounds, with the words struggling to bumble out from cracked lips and a dry throat.

Jaskier doesn’t take his eyes off of the bandages. “Long gone,” he murmurs, “once I assured them that you weren’t dead.”

The room is quiet. Distantly, he can hear the faint hum of the tavern below them. His nose flares at the familiar scent of roast meats and mead being served for breakfast. Jaskier glances at him out of the corner of his eye, regarding for a moment. His lips are tight, with not a twitch of a smile he likes seeing tug at them. “For a brief moment,” he rasps, “I thought you were.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow.

“You were getting cold,” Jaskier explains, letting himself fall back down on to his chair at Geralt’s bedside, “and I saw your breath start to thin. Some part of me knew that it was just your Witcher body preserving itself, but...it wasn’t pleasant. To watch that. To think, _gods, what if he actually dies_?”

Geralt regards him for a moment. It’s all too strange. He should have staggered back to the tavern and patched himself up. _Maybe_ with the assistance of a passing healer, if they were feeling kind enough to assist a Witcher; because some weren’t. He should have knocked back enough potions to make him sleep for days on end, and he should have woken up alone. The road would eventually call to him, and he would continue the cycle again.

But here’s Jaskier; his hands strongly scented in soap, from washing Geralt’s blood off of his skin, watching over him like some guardian. His chest tightens and his tongue sits heavily in his mouth. All the thoughts of leaving the bard behind in some town or city, just so he could get on with his path-walking in peace, they suddenly don’t sit right with him anymore.

Jaskier sniffs. “Yeah, well, you’re a stubborn old bastard so I didn’t have to worry, did I?” He tries to push the words out through a laugh; but it’s weak and waning and he turns to scurry to the side of the room. A small collection of bowls and plates sit on a nearby cupboard. “The tavernkeep left up some food for you, once you woke up. It should help with the healing.”

Geralt stares at the bard’s back. _Worry_. The word sits with him for a moment. Before his mind can catch up, his voice rasps. “You worried about me?” It’s not quite a question, and not quite a statement. But he watches the words reach the bard and settle over him. Jaskier fiddles with their breakfast, all neatly and reordered on a tray. When he does turn, tray held in his hands, he keeps his face as neutral as he can manage.

“Of course I did,” Jaskier mutters. He doesn’t put the tray over the Witcher, but perches it on the small sliver of space between him and the edge of the cot and helps Geralt catch the rim of a plate in his hand. The tips of his fingers are still tingling and numb, but he manages. Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “You’re my travelling companion, aren’t you? And my personal guard. Why, if I were to get into trouble, who would come valiantly to my side to make sure I was safe?”

The corner of Geralt’s lip quirks. The bard does have an innate talent of finding trouble to wrap himself up in; and almost always relying on Geralt to find some shred of humanity within himself to make sure he isn’t bludgeoned to death by some cuckolded intended. And by all the gods above, he’ll grumble about it. Veiled threats made that the next time Jaskier finds himself in a countess’ bedchambers he will be left behind and forced to work himself out of trouble. But a pang always shudders through Geralt’s chest at the thought of it – Jaskier being alone, something possibly happening to him. It doesn’t sit right with him at all. So, begrudgingly, he will help. And the cycle continues.

Jaskier sits in his chair, hands clasped over his knees and breakfast entirely forgotten about. He eyes the bandages stretched over and around Geralt. “But you’re okay now,” he says, almost as an afterthought, and mainly to himself rather than the Witcher.

Grilled sausage and toast don’t seem to interest him anymore. Even though his stomach churns and rumbles and he can feel himself starting to salivate – food will help him, and he can’t remember the last time he ate, seeing as though he forwent a dinner to start his hunt – he forgets about the food. _He was worried_. _He was worried about **me**_.

This isn’t the way of things. He shouldn’t have any of this. If something happened to him, and he found himself dead in a ditch somewhere out in the countryside, or in a crypt never to be found again, so what? He’s a Witcher. It’s expected that something terrible could happen at any moment, and no one would care. His brothers would mourn – and then move on. They moved on after Kaer Morhen lost more than enough of its pack. The contacts he has made over the years, those who might have called him an acquaintance or, gods forbid, a _friend_ , would click their tongues, utter how terrible it all was, and _move on_.

And then there’s the bard; his heart still quickening in his chest as he struggles not to look at the cot or the Witcher in it. At the stretch of bandages covering his abdomen and chest and the flecks of blood that manage to bleed through. It’s all too strange and too much, and Geralt can feel his throat starting to close in on itself. Food is an afterthought. He couldn’t eat if he tried. The words that manage to come out of him crawl out of his throat, clambering to push past his clenching jaw and shut teeth.

“Thank you.”

They sit in the air for a moment, in the small sliver of space between him strewn on a cot and Jaskier huddled on to a chair. A fork stills halfway to the bard’s mouth, open and frozen and staring at Geralt while he comes to terms with what he just heard. He manages to set his fork down before anything falls on to the ground. “Uh,” the bard mumbles, trying to gather words together, “sure. Of course. Yeah. You’re welcome.”

Geralt hums. He doesn’t have anything else to say on the matter. Maybe when they leave, once he’s healed and back on the road, he would have had enough time to try and construct something more coherent to tell the bard. But until then, he’s content just to let it lie; despite the air around them still thick and almost smothering.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter  
> @eyesupmarksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated! Happy holidays!


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